Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "My king," Igraina said. "Let me take your mind off of your troubles. Maybe then you will see how unimportant this whole matter is—how unimportant she is."

  T'kar turned back. Igraina felt a lump of bile rise in her throat as she undid her robes and let them fall to the floor. The king's demonic rictus grin sent chills up her spine, but she kept her composure as he approached slowly and purposely, his hands flexing and relaxing.

  "You are a fine specimen of your race," T'kar growled, stripping off his own robes.

  The disgusting sight of the king's naked body sent a wave of revulsion through Igraina's very soul. She maintained her seductive smile, though, swallowing hard as the filthy, hairy, and foul-smelling beast placed his hands upon her. Only the proper spell could cloud her mind enough to block out the horrifying and reviling experience she was about to endure, and she began chanting the words in her mind.

  "My hunters will find her," T'kar whispered in her ear. "They will find her and bring her back, child or not."

  "He is dead, my king," she whispered back, swallowing the bile that began to rise. "This I swear to you. My own life be damned."

  T'kar pulled back to stare into her eyes, his hands grasping and massaging her breasts. She smiled lustfully, licking her lips as a vile grin spread across his cracked lips.

  "Let me take your mind off of your troubles," she said.

  "Good," T'kar replied. "But be warned; if I find that you have defied me, your fate will be that of the queen."

  "I would expect no less," Igraina said.

  For once, her words were not a lie.

  Cohlein was awakened in the cold morning by the sound of horsemen. She pressed herself back into the cave, against the cold stone wall, grabbing the fire gems and stuffing them in her pocket. The horses came to a stop nearby, and she felt her heart race in terror. Anticipating a possible need for escape, she quietly fished out another handful of gems, preparing them for an explosive distraction if need be.

  She could hear the horsemen dismount and begin chattering amongst themselves. They spoke the language of T'kar, she heard, not the typical language of the local peasant. They were his hunters, and it was obvious they were looking for her. They must have found her trail. Surely Mother Igraina would not have betrayed her.

  "Come out!" one of the guards called. "We know you're here, lass. It's pointless to hide now. Come out and be done with it."

  Cohlein's heart raced. If they found her, they would surely kill her and the child, or at least take her back to the keep where T'kar himself would see to their execution. Recalling the screams of agony she had hear from the queen, she knew her execution would be just as horrifying.

  She couldn't let that happen.

  As she cowered back even further, trying desperately to quell her breathing, she heard the footsteps come even closer. By now her heart was pounding with more ferocity than it ever had, and she was on the verge of panic. The weeds outside the cave entrance began rustling, and she knew they would find her soon.

  Then, to her horror, the baby cooed.

  "Did you hear that?" one of the hunters said.

  Cohlein froze, holding Daegoth close. She gripped her fire gems tightly, preparing to toss them should she need to flee. She trembled in terror as the rustling resumed outside.

  "She's in here," a hunter said.

  With a burst of energy, Cohlein leaped up and bolted out of the entrance. She saw the look of shock on the nearest hunter's face, and flung her fire gems right at him, fleeing to the right toward the river. She could hear the blast of flame that erupted as the gems impacted the hunter, and the screams of pain as he was engulfed in their flame.

  She fled right past another hunter who was frozen in shock, and scrambled to dodge another who reached out to grab her. There were four altogether, she saw, and there was no way she could fight them, not with a baby in her hands, at least. An arrow flew past her, burying itself in the ground. Behind her, the shouts of the hunters drove her on.

  Then, as she neared the river bank, a blast of pain erupted from her lower back. An arrow had struck her. She gasped in pain but ran on, pushing through the stinging agony of the obviously poisoned tip. Though her vision swam, she would not give up. She had to get the child to safety any way she could. She would not let him fall into T'kar's hands.

  Another arrow struck her in the thigh, slowing her down greatly. She limped through it, determined to reach the river, though she did not know why. It was over, she knew. They would capture her, and she and the child would suffer the same fate as the queen. She began to weep as she lost her breath, and her hope.

  A final arrow struck home, embedding itself in her spine and pitching her forward onto the river bank. She felt the bundle in her arms fly forward, landing in the shallow water. Daegoth's cries echoed in her ears, drowning out the sound of the hunters as they finally caught up to her.

  But in her clouded vision, the strangely translucent image of a woman's face appeared in the water. It was angry and vengeful, she saw, and its wrath was focused upon the hunters behind her. A pair of hands reached up through the surface of the water, gently guiding Daegoth out into the river, keeping him afloat as the woman's face began to fade back into the water.

  As her vision darkened, Cohlein heard a clash of steel, and the screams of horror behind her as the hunters were slain by some unknown swordsman. Blood splattered into the river, swirling in the water and floating away, slowly disappearing downstream. Though she knew she was doomed, something had come to the child's rescue, taking him safely into the gently flowing river, spiriting him away from the wrath of the hunters.

  The spirits of the river had come to his rescue. For this, Cohlein was thankful. She had fulfilled her mission. She could die in peace.

  The son of the Dragon was safe.

  Chapter Three

  Olav waded into the deeper waters of the Varg River, reaching out with his hook to snag the fishing net that had come loose. He cursed his luck, knowing that a good portion of his catch had escaped, and the salmon would not return for another year. He had been waiting for the spawning season with great anticipation, as the Völvas had predicted a larger yield than normal, and he had fashioned what he thought was an ingenious method to trap them.

  Now, as he finally snagged his net, he realized his failure. Though still catching a rather large number of salmon that swam upriver, it was nowhere near the amount he was expecting. His invention had failed.

  Mostly.

  Across the river, on the western bank near the falls, young Fleek laughed and yelled while effortlessly catching salmon in mid-air as they leaped up the rapids. Olav grumbled, knowing the boy was having much better luck than he was, but eventually grinned. There was no reason to be angry, he realized. Fleek was doing his part to help feed the clan.

  Though simple-minded and "not right in the head", as it was said, Fleek was a fine young man. If the clan ever faced any danger, such as the nearby islanders invading their territory, Fleek would be the first one to take up arms. He was a master with his sling, and absolutely never missed his target—even when he wasn't looking.

  Such a skill was always valuable to people like Olav's clan. Though not openly hostile toward T'kar's forces—never joining the other clans in attacking them—they did their best to defend their side of the Droma Mountains. In return, or perhaps as a consequence, T'kar rarely ventured into this side of the jagged range.

  Rarely.

  Focusing his attention back on his net, he pulled it toward him with all of his strength, tying it off on the post he had pounded into the riverbed. Soon, with the help of some of the others, he could harvest the catch, and the clan would enjoy salted salmon all winter. Or at least part of it.

  When he had finished tying off the lines, he turned to begin the arduous process of returning to shore. Somehow, he thought, it was always easier to go out than come back in. He could never figure out why.

  He suddenly heard a sharp cry, and a splash, and spun to look
in Fleek's direction. The boy had fallen in, he realized, and was heading for the falls. He could hear him screaming and gurgling as he was tossed about by the rapids, and he could see the boy's form bobbing up and down in the water.

  He rushed toward the opposite shore, keeping his eyes on the rapids. Fleek had caught a large boulder near the edge of the falls and was hanging there, screaming, as the water rushed around him.

  "Hold on boy!" Olav shouted. "Don't let go!"

  "H—help me!" Fleek cried out.

  Olav's heart raced as he rushed through the water, avoiding the large rocks, and trying his hardest not to slip. It would do no good to drown while trying to help someone else. When he reached the rocks, he hefted himself onto the largest one, crawling on his belly to reach out and offer his hand. Fleek cried and screamed, frozen and unable to grab it. Olav realized if the boy let go with one hand, he would likely lose his grip. He was barely holding on as it was.

  He scooted closer, bridging himself over the rock where Fleek clung, and reached down to grab the boy's tunic. Maybe he could just hang on to him that way, he thought, as long as the tunic didn't rip or come off.

  Then, as he felt the fabric of Fleek's tunic, the boy lost his grip.

  The world slowed down then, and Olav's body went into action. He slid forward, shooting his arm out as far as he could reach it. His fingers barely closed around a tuft of Fleek's hair, but it was all he needed. As the world sped back up again he felt the boy's weight dangling from his arm, a feeling that calmed his heart.

  He pulled up, sliding his legs off of the rock behind him and wedging his weight on the riverbed and the larger stone. Fleek grabbed onto him, wrapping his arms around him tightly, still screaming and crying.

  "It's alright, boy," Olav assured him, hefting him back to the shore.

  When they arrived safely, Olav stood him up on the ground, relieved but angry.

  "Watch yourself, boy," he scolded. "You almost pulled me in with you. Be more careful next time."

  Fleek stood motionless and terrified, letting his face droop toward the ground. Olav sighed, knowing it wasn't really the boy's fault. He felt sorry for Fleek. He had no parents, no idea how to behave, and he was clumsy. But that was no reason to yell at him. Olav shook his head as he raked his hair back, ashamed at his outburst.

  "I'm sorry, son," he said. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm glad you're safe. Run along now. We'll be eating a fine feast later on."

  Fleek looked up at him with those innocent eyes. Olav could only smile. The boy mirrored his smile and ran off back toward the village.

  "Blasted fool," Olav said, still smiling.

  Exhausted, he sat down on the rocky bank, breathing deeply to calm himself, and staring upstream at the defensive bridge. The sight of it gave him an idea; something to keep the children safe from the river itself. Maybe he could build another bridge like the one upstream between the two slopes. It would be one right at the edge of the falls, built there to keep the children from falling in and down onto the rocks. Granted, the falls weren't that high, only as high as a man is tall, but the roughness of the water at the bottom was enough to drown anyone who couldn't swim.

  He couldn't have that. Perhaps the chieftain could help him decide on it.

  With his breathing slowed and his muscles finally relaxed, Olav stood to return home. It was then he saw something floating upstream, just past the bridge. It looked like a small bundle of flowers—lilies, to be exact—wrapped together in some sort of bouquet, yet floating there on the water as if placed purposely. He squinted to make sure he wasn't seeing things, and as the bundle came closer, he realized it wasn't just a vision.

  He stepped into the water again, focusing on the bundle as it floated toward him with gathering speed. If he didn't catch it, it would float on by and down the falls, lost forever. He had to reach it. He went in further, centering himself in the bundle's path. He could no doubt stop it, but what was inside it was another question entirely. But, as the bundle came closer, his ears caught a sound that seemed oddly familiar.

  He couldn't place it, but his curiosity was piqued. What could be in there?

  "Come on, come on," he whispered.

  The sound was growing louder, and more familiar, and as the bundle finally reached him, his heart sank. There, on a bed of lilies tied together with a strange type of silk, was a human child; naked and bawling. He stared at it with eyes as wide as the Moon.

  "By Kronos," he exclaimed.

  He reached down and lifted the baby out of the bundle, holding it out before him, shocked and bewildered. Where had this child come from? Why was it in this bundle floating down the river? Who had put it there?

  He rushed back onto the bank, fetching his cloak and wrapping the baby up tightly. Though it still cried, its eyes opened, realizing it was now in safe hands. Olav saw that the child's eyes were blue, like most Northmen, but his hair was black. The people of Eirenoch, he knew, had black hair sometimes, but none had blue eyes that he knew of.

  The child was a mystery.

  He looked back at the bundle, which was now wedged between two small rocks. There was something laying there where the baby had been; a locket or broach of some kind. Curious, he waded back into the water with the baby in his hands. He reached into the bundle and retrieved the item. It was some kind of bronze symbol; a disk with the image of a dragon carved into it; the crest of King Daegoth, the current queen's father.

  What was it doing here?

  He looked back at the child, who was now asleep and peaceful. Could this be queen Fianna's child? If so, what was it doing floating down the river? Why did it not look like T'kar the Usurper? Was it not his child, also?

  "No," Olav concluded. "You are no beast, are you?"

  The baby cooed in its sleep, and Olav smiled. He felt a warmth in his heart that he hadn't felt since his own son was born. It was a feeling that seemed to make him whole again, to fill that empty spot in his heart left by the child's death. He thought of his wife, whose light was dimmed when their son had died of fever just months after he was born. Now, as he looked at the child in his arms, he could only wonder whether this was a blessing meant for them.

  What did it mean? Did the gods give him this child for a reason? Was it a gift?

  "A gift," he whispered. "Yes. A gift to us; to our tribe."

  Wrapping the baby up in his cloak, he started back home. The catch could wait. He had other matters to attend to. He would take the child to his wife, and then consult the Völva. She would know what to do.

  She would give him guidance.

  Olav carried the bundle close as he re-entered the village. Children were scattered about, playing their games among the longhouses, and the men were gathered around the fires that billowed smoke in the hazy afternoon. He could smell the pork that was roasting in the center pit, and it made his mouth water. Tonight, he knew, there would be a feast in celebration of the year's catch.

  He ignored the festivities for now, heading beyond the longhouses to the rocky path that led to his home. There, near a tributary creek, nestled among a few pines, he and his wife had settled. It was set back from the rest of the village, like most of the other houses, but he had chosen this place because of the flat ground. His wife could grow her vegetables there, and he could have plenty of flat space to build his contraptions; and plenty of straight pines to use for materials.

  He saw her sitting on the small porch in her wooden chair, peeling potatoes and humming to herself as she always did. He paused for a moment, smiling as her appearance brought that warm feeling of his undying love. Though her face was its usual mask of grief, he knew that the sight of the child in his arms would bring back that sunny smile that he had fallen in love with.

  The smile that he had climbed the tallest trees for.

  She looked up as he approached, and Olav saw the familiar sadness in her eyes. She smiled slightly; just enough to show him her love, but her eyes betrayed her heart. He was undaunted, though, and held the chi
ld closer.

  "Wife," he said to her. "The gods have smiled upon us this day."

  She looked up curiously, cocking her head. "They have?" she asked. "How so?"

  Olav knelt before her, and she looked down at the bundle he carried in his arms. She raised her brow, and he smiled at her warmly as he moved the cloak from the child's face. Svana dropped her potatoes as her hands shot up to cover her mouth in shock. She breathed in sharply, and Olav raised the bundle up to her.

  "Olav," she said with a quivering voice. "Where did you find this child?"

  "He was floating downriver," Olav said. "He is a gift. I know it."

  Svana reached out, taking the child in her arms, her eyes never leaving its wrinkled little face. Olav's heart raced as he saw her beautiful smile. He had missed it greatly. It was the one thing that brought back the beauty she once possessed, and now it was there again. It was a sight that warmed his heart.

  "He is of the house of Daegoth, I think," Olav said.

  "He is beautiful," Svana whispered. "As beautiful as Kronos himself."

  "His eyes are blue like the sky," Olav said. "Like our people. But I know he is of the people of Eirenoch. He bore the symbol of the Dragon."

  Svana began to weep as she stroked the infant's forehead. She raised him up and nuzzled him, her eyes closed tightly. A tear rolled down her cheek as she wept silently, praying in thanks to the gods that had brought this gift to her.

  "We will raise him as our own," Olav said. "You can be a mother again."

  "What of the tribe?" she asked. "How will we explain this to them?"

  "We will tell them the truth," Olav replied. "The Völva will know what to do."

  "Whatever she thinks, she will honor our wish to raise him."

  "Then it is settled," Olav said. "He will be our son."

  "A beautiful child he is," the Völva said, her wrinkled face beaming with joy. "And a strange one."

  "What do you mean?" Olav asked.

  The Völva took up the metal broach that had been attached to the baby's blanket. She held it up to the candle that burned on a short table nearby, tracing her fingers over the symbol that was emblazoned upon it.